


Whumptober 2020 - Original Fic Edition

by luninosity



Series: Whumptober 2020 [3]
Category: A Demon For Midwinter - K. L. Noone, Character Bleed - K.L. Noone, Original Work
Genre: Accidental Literally Scorching-Hot Sex, Alternate Universe - Demons, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Anniversary, Bed Rest, Chapter 1:, Chapter 2:, Chapter 3:, Chapter 4:, Chapter 5:, Chapter 6:, Chronic Pain, Concealing An Injury, Consensual Kink, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotions, Established Relationship, Fae & Fairies, Filming, Fire Magic, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Historical Roleplay, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Love, M/M, Manhandling, Minor Injuries, Polyamory, Rock Stars, Sexual Roleplay, Spies & Secret Agents, Whump, Whumptober, Whumptober 2020, fic for...my own novels?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:00:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27251575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: All the Whumptober ficlets for my original characters / published novels!1- theme 14. IS SOMETHING BURNING? - prompt: Fire(Kris/Justin, what happens when a demon with fire magic loses just a little too much control in bed? mild hurt, angst about whether it could've been worse, comforting)2- 20. TOTO, I HAVE A FEELING WE’RE NOT IN KANSAS ANYMORE -  Medieval; 21. I DON’T FEEL SO WELL - Chronic Pain(Brendan/Jamie, a new piece from an unfinished story: the pull of Faerie is too hard, sometimes.)3- 3. MY WAY OR THE HIGHWAY -  Manhandled(Jason/Colby: Colby likes Jason's muscles. And role-play in which Jason uses those muscles to claim a stowaway on a pirate ship.)4- 7. I’VE GOT YOU -  Support | Carrying; 30. NOW WHERE DID THAT COME FROM? -  Wound Reveal(Jason/Colby, in character as John/Cam: John Kill and his newest spy team member might have a problem or two.)5- 19. BROKEN HEARTS -  Grief | Mourning Loved One; 29. I THINK I NEED A DOCTOR -  Reluctant Bed Rest(Jason/Colby, an anniversary for Jason, minor injuries)6- 30. NOW WHERE DID THAT COME FROM? - Ignoring an Injury(Sam/Leo, Sam on set and watching Leo film a scene about concealing a wound)
Relationships: Jason Mirelli/Colby Kent, Justin Moore/Kris Starr, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Series: Whumptober 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1986763
Comments: 7
Kudos: 30
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. fire (kris/justin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when a demon with fire magic loses just a little too much control in bed? Mild hurt, angst about whether it could've been worse, comfort.

“Um,” Justin said. “Oops?”

They were both looking at the remains of their bed, which smoldered pointedly back at them. The air tasted like smoke, definitely no longer like sex and sweetness and sweat; the large scorch-mark in the center suggested that they’d need a new mattress, and probably a whole new bed, in the very near future.

Kris ran a hand through his hair, did not sigh out loud—he’d liked that bed; he also loved his husband—and said, “Are you all right?” Justin took priority over the bed, for at least two reasons. The furniture knew this and did not mind.

“Honestly? I don’t know.” Justin, still naked and shaken, sat down gingerly on an unburnt corner of bed. His hair, his eyes, even his teeth, remained wreathed in flame, though some of it’d dwindled; he looked like the half-demon he was, even more than usual: fire and sex and magic and sensuality. “I don’t generally…”

“You don’t lose control.” Kris, also naked and unscathed because Justin had magically flung him across the room just in time, sat down beside him. Held out a hand. His hip ached from landing on the floor and getting old, but he could deal with that. “I know you don’t. Was it just the timing? The whole breakthrough power problem?”

“Maybe?” Justin put a hand into Kris’s, unhappily; his claws hadn’t quite faded into fingernails. His eyes were more crimson than brown; Kris wondered briefly if Justin _couldn’t_ turn it all off, not completely, right this second.

He held Justin’s hand. He said, “Look, it’s a compliment, yeah? I’m just that good in bed, right, making you feel so good you spontaneously combust…”

Justin laughed, honest if hollow. “You are. I think…actually I think that was part of it? You, and me…we always do have, um, explosive sex. You always say you’re better at projective empathy, but you receive, too…you can’t not, when it’s that close and that strong, and I’m, well, me, so…”

“Yeah, but you’re _my_ sex demon. Seduction. All that.” He drummed fingers over Justin’s hand. “Not usually a problem. More like, y’know, the best ever. Every time, love.”

“Yes.” Justin made a face, abruptly more human: unearthly sharpnesses ebbed away from teeth, tiny horns, cheekbones, fingernails. His hair stayed scarlet and cinnamon. “I think you’re right. About the best sex ever—I do love having sex with you—and also about the timing. They said it’d be hard, for a few weeks…unpredictable, me trying to push it all back down, the power not wanting to be pushed, you know, you were there…you heard them…”

“Hmm,” Kris said, not committing to an answer just yet. He had complicated feelings about Justin’s decision regarding demonic inheritance. Justin, in fact, had looked at the offer—to remain in the underworld, to take up his mother’s heritage and power—and had chosen to stay half human. Had chosen to come home, to this plane of existence, full of New York City pizza and bagels and bookshops and rock music.

Justin loved all those things, he knew.

Justin had been told, then, that the power would both flare and fade. More, at first: that breakthrough problem. The more he’d used it, here in this world, the more he’d embraced it, the stronger he’d become: strong enough to make it all spill over, to crash through and drown his usual illusions and mostly-human disguises. It’d reached the point of being dangerous: if he opened otherworld portals without meaning to, if he could conjure up objects or people simply by thinking of them, casually rearranging the world on a whim, in a daydream, by accident.

If he chose to use it less, it’d never disappear but would weaken, like most unused abilities; he’d been trying. But sometimes he couldn’t help it. And sometimes the magic got a bit angry about not being used.

Kris, who loved Justin, had never wanted him to be less than himself. Leather jackets and love of family. Filipino desserts—Justin had learned from his stepmother, in that cheerful scholarly ramble of metaphysical physics projects and academic history journals and unquestioned affection that collectively made up Justin’s family home in upstate New York, and could do amazing things with deep-fried bananas and fire-magic—and glitter-painted fingernails, when they weren’t stretching out into claws. Book projects and sometimes corsets and figure-hugging skirts and luscious high heels.

Magic laced Justin’s bones, Justin’s soul. They couldn’t pretend it didn’t. Kris didn’t want to. Justin was his favorite person, and a fucking delight, the light of his life, in fact, the light he’d once forgotten how to recognize. Until Justin Moore had taken his hand and shaken his weary old rock star heart back into beating faster.

He knew Justin had chosen to stay human for him, at least in part. He knew Justin loved him.

He did not quite know how to think about that size of sacrifice; and so he also never quite knew what to say. I love you? Thank you? Please don’t leave me? Please be what you need to be, please never be anything less, because of me? Please always smile at me just like that, always or at least one more time…

I love you, he thought now, as loudly as he could; he knew Justin would hear it, would feel it, carried on weightless empathic human talent.

“I’m sorry,” Justin said, to their joined hands and to the bed.

“Nah, ’s all good.” Kris swung their hands a little. “We’ve had that mattress ages anyway, right?”

“I could’ve hurt you. I could’ve seriously—”

“But you didn’t.”

“But—”

“Love. Listen. Yeah, things caught fire a little bit, but you saved me, didn’t you? First thing you did, protecting me. You always do.”

Justin still didn’t look happy. Kris lifted his hand, kissed the back of it. “A few weeks, they said. It’ll get more stable. We’ll manage.”

“It won’t ever go away completely.”

“No,” Kris said. That was true. “But you’ll be closer to where you used to be. Leveling out. It’ll learn. And we’ll learn. And maybe not push you too much. Maybe I just don’t do that thing with my tongue, for a while…”

“I _like_ that thing with your tongue,” Justin grumbled. “Are you _sure_ you’re okay? I can feel your bruises.”

“It’s fine, I’ve felt worse after a great night on tour. Ask Reggie about Reading sometime. No, never mind, don’t, he’ll tell you.”

Justin, who was by now good friends with Kris’s former bass player, laughed more. This one sounded more real. “He has, if it’s the same story I’m thinking of. Impressive. You’re really okay with this?”

“I’m fine with you knowing all my stories, love.”

“I meant—”

“I know what you meant.” He scooted over, avoiding soot; he put an arm around Justin, who after a second relaxed enough to lean against him. “And it’s kind of the same thing, right? You’ve heard it all, everything we got up to, the worst things we ever did on a tour bus or that hotel we got kicked out of in Edinburgh…”

“Which time?”

“Yeah, my _point_ ,” Kris said, much happier now that Justin was being sarcastic at him, and wondering when Reg had had time to share _that_ one, “was, you’re still here. So, so am I. Set whatever you want on fire, it’s all good.”

“I might be able to fix the bed,” Justin said. “I have…a lot of power, right now. Right under my skin, sort of. Running around. I could use some of it up.”

“If you want. If not, we can do some shopping. Don’t worry about it.”

“No, I can, I think.” Justin sat up more, turned that way, set a hand on the ruin of mattress and sheets. His touch was gentle, apologetic. “Here…”

Very very quietly, without fanfare, fire-lines slid out of his hand, across the bed; the world wove itself back together, put itself to rights, repaired and cleansed by flame. Justin’s eyes were shut; Kris knew he needed a mental picture for something like this, a memory, a sort of instruction manual for reconstruction.

The night tasted of brimstone and nutmeg and caramelized cream. Justin opened his eyes; he touched their bed again, over spotless dark blue satin sheets. It was another apology, a promise, Kris understood.

He said, “How’re you feeling?”

“Better, actually.” Justin said this with some surprise, and glanced from the bed to Kris, eyebrows startled. “Something felt…right about using it. Not in the scary way, I mean, like losing control. More like…it doesn’t mind being domestic. Our bed’s a very human thing, and it’s something I want, something I asked for, and…I don’t know.”

“Like your magic wants to be useful.” Kris caught his shoulder, nudged him back down; they ended up curled together in the restored expanse of bed, which cradled them without resentment and with compassion. “Like it’s part of you, and it wants what you want, so if you want to be doing more human things, home furniture repair or, um, heating up a kettle, or something…”

“It’ll learn to do that.” Justin’s arm tightened around Kris’s waist. Their legs tangled; Kris’s body reacted, full of bruises and adrenaline, having the man he loved pressed so closely against him. He noticed a minor streak of black on the ceiling; he didn’t mention it.

Justin went on, “You think it’ll work? Like…a sort of compromise?”

“Might be something to think about?” He ran a hand through the flames of Justin’s hair; they weren’t hot now. They normally weren’t, only pleasantly warm and tingly.

“Maybe,” Justin said, “maybe,” and then, amused, “Heating up your teakettle? Really?”

“Hey, you might as well use it.”

“Fine. If you make coffee for me. _And_ do that thing with your tongue again.”

“Could do that part right now, if you’re feeling up for it.”

“You really do trust me,” Justin said. “I promise I’ll try not to set you on fire.” His eyes said more, written in shimmers of ruby and spice, amber and dark cocoa: thank you for that, thank you and I love you, thank you for seeing me and wanting me and not running away from old tales of demons and monsters, thank you and I want you too, right here and now.

“Sounds like a plan,” Kris agreed, and bent to kiss him, as the bed and sheets and pillows cheered them on.


	2. medieval/chronic pain (jamie/brendan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pull of Faerie is too hard, sometimes. It tugs at bones. Makes Jamie's heart ache. Breaks him to pieces every time he comes home to his husband, the man he loves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a chapter from...the sequel to a novel I haven't finished yet! I'd been wanting to write this scene, or something like it, and it was perfect for this particular Whumptober prompt, so I finally did!
> 
> All you really need to know is...  
> 1) the first book is basically sort of the Orpheus myth, combined with a sort of Faerie bride situation - Jamie came to Brendan's kingdom as the new young ambassador from his own country, and promptly fell head over heels in love with the king, while hiding his own secret about having been born with magic (ever since the Mage Wars, that's an Uncomfortable Thing)...  
> 2)...the Faerie King, assuming magic generally belongs to him and also humans should be honored by the attention, decided Jamie would make a really excellent new Consort, and took him; both Jamie and Brendan objected to this, and there's a whole quest and finding each other across two realms and so on...  
> 3)...but it's complicated, because there's a lot Jamie doesn't know about himself and magic, and the Faerie King's so lonely (and kind of, in his head, trying to help), and...  
> 4)...polyamory, eventually! Though at the start of book two, here, they're still very much in "it's Jamie sleeping with both of us, and both of us are Kings in our respective realms, because he needs and wants us both" rather than "all three of us are in this together," which is where it'll eventually end up! (I do know what happens to get them there! It'll be fun.)

Jamie stepped out of nothing into a game of football happening on the Great Lawn, under large shaggy trees and the benevolent gaze of the castle’s old stones; the University students had the afternoon off and were taking full advantage of early autumn sun. None of them flinched, being more or less used to the Royal Consort walking out of tree-trunks and unexpected doors and magic; they were young enough to have grown up with a magician living in the castle and in love with their King, and several of them were also old enough to know that the University’d been one of Jamie’s personal projects as Consort. Rilla, the architecture-minded daughter of the farmers he’d once protected from the year of the Great Northern Flood, kicked the ball his way, laughing, an invitation. Jamie blocked it neatly, considered Faerie-related magical-traveling weariness and his second-best pair of boots, shrugged, and ran over.

Bren would’ve worried. For multiple reasons. But, then, his husband was several years older, was the actual King and thus had at least a small amount more royal dignity, and was built of high-strung nervous protective awareness of the world. Brendan, Jamie had always thought, would’ve fussed over his family no matter the size of it, one other person in a clerk’s small rented room or the entire populace of his kingdom.

Bren would’ve worried even more at this particular moment. They both knew perfectly well that trips to Faerie were exhausting, draining, entangled with enchantment in multiple ways; Bren knew that Jamie and the Faerie King had what could at best be called a tempestuous relationship, and did not like that either, also for multiple reasons. Jamie did not keep secrets from his husband, whom he loved with every ounce of his heart and soul, if magicians had souls—the Church he’d been raised in suggested that the jury might still be debating this one—and therefore had not kept that secret either.

He occasionally did not tell Brendan _every_ detail. Like the slow worsening of the tug, the pull, the difficulty opening doors home again. It wasn’t exhaustion, not precisely.

He breathed in bright green grass and familiar autumn, felt the low deep pleased thrum of ground and rocks and tree-roots and human taverns and roadways and rumbling carts and growing turnips; and came over to join the closest University student team when they waved. He wasn’t _that_ much older than they were, as he sometimes found himself reminded by elderly Councilors and annoyed Lords. And he’d always liked football.

Besides, the game felt very joyful and very messy and very human. An anchor. This plane.

They’d already picked out goals and haphazard field boundaries; Rilla said, “So, no enchanting anything to move or talk or jump over someone’s head, no matter _what_ rules you might’ve learned up there in Caledon,” but it was lighthearted, poking a Royal Consort who’d arrived years ago as a brand-new foreign ambassador and promptly fallen head over heels for their King. Jamie said, “I’m offended you think my side can’t beat yours fair and square, shouldn’t even need magic for that,” and grinned at her.

It was a good game, noisy and full of shouting and sunlight and running and jumping around and cheering with delight when someone managed to score; the ball got stuck in a tree once, and narrowly missed a cart belonging to a seller of roasted apples once, and one of the palace cats ran across the field in the background. Jamie did in fact intervene with regard to the apple-cart, a tiny nudge of magic so as not to hit the poor man’s livelihood dead-on.

He had to pause for a moment, leaning over. Hands on knees. Surprisingly winded. He’d come back more wrung out than he’d thought. Too hard, leaving. Too much like tearing himself out of a tapestry, magic wanting to stay with magic—

“Jamie!” someone said, from down the field. “I thought Royal Consorts were supposed to be _good_ at maintaining relations with the people! Come have good relations with this ball!”

Jamie laughed, straightened up, and went. And helped score that goal, with a mild sense of satisfied vengeance.

His side lost in the end, though only by a point; they stopped as the sun got lower and a few players had assignments to finish for University masters or friends to meet, and they exchanged back-slaps and compliments and happy waves, breaking up the group. Several of them were headed to the nearest tavern, and they beckoned him along; Jamie waved them off and flopped down on the grass, sprawled lazily on his back.

He was more tired than he’d let on, though it was the tiredness of good exhaustion, of physicality, mostly. Not entirely; but more than the rest.

The tall calm young man who’d been the captain of the opposing team came over, gazed at the exhausted Royal Consort thoughtfully, went off and got a cup of water from the nearest well and came back. He had dark skin and dark eyes and darker ink-splash freckles across his nose, and he held out the drinking-cup. “All right?”

“Oh,” Jamie said, sitting up more, “fine, thank you. Brilliant goal, by the way, that last one; you deserved the win. I really am fine; stop looking at me like that.”

“Right,” Neved said, “that’s just what happens when the older generation plays football—”

“How old do you think I _am?_ ”

“And also when you jump out of a tree in the middle of the afternoon.” Nev sat down next to him on the grass, unshakably cheerfully watchful.

“Ah,” Jamie said, and drank half the water. “That. Sorry.”

“What for? Does it hurt? Going there. Coming back.”

“Oh…” He looked into the depths of the cup. Thought briefly of color-shifting leaves, of unearthly shimmers in stones and vines. Of the touch of a hand, cool and inhuman, resting on his arm. Of a kiss like summer, like the way slow liquid-sugar glory sank in under skin and poured molten bees-wax along cold bones, warming them with gold.

He thought instead, deliberately, of Brendan's smile, shy and hesitant but growing when Jamie grinned right back. Of Bren's genius mind and thoughtful patient fingers, trying so hard to find the best answer for the good of everyone, determinedly doing the hard and boring and practical work of kingship, every day.

His entire body hurt. He said, “No. Not exactly.”

“You’re sure about that, then,” Neved said, meaningfully.

“It’s like…” He put the cup down. Used both hands to talk. “Imagine you’ve been mostly blind your whole life. You can see a bit, just enough to get the—the shapes of things. To know colors. But then you go somewhere else, and not only can you see—everything—you can hear and smell and taste and feel it too. Like drinking rainbows, or breathing sapphires, or seeing the notes of a harp in amber and scarlet and wine…” He waved fingers about, not quite sure he’d managed successful illustration. “And then you give it up, over and over, and you come back to that first place, in the dark…”

It was true, though if he ever put it in those terms to Brendan he’d break his husband’s heart. He wasn’t sure why he’d said it here, under earth-bound sun.

“So you _are_ hurt.”

“Culture shock,” Jamie said, leaning back on elbows, letting the scent of grass and the heat of fading sun envelop him. “It’ll fade. You did help, all of you.” And then he had to explain about anchors and the rich raw sensations of earth and laughter and bodies and sweat and human things. Neved listened gravely; Jamie finished, “Bren sometimes talks to me about economics. _Nothing_ is more real than projected income from turnip crop yields, believe me.”

This got a laugh. “I could tell you about my senior thesis at the University. Ekkarian warrior honor codes, historical, from the fourth century? And how they’re expressed in epic poetry of the time?”

“Oh,” Jamie said, “absolutely yes, go on,” because he didn’t know much about Ekkarian culture and because he liked seeing people get passionate about pieces of themselves. “Honor codes? Something like our oath of fealty?”

***

Brendan, glancing idly up from financial reports about the proposed cost of the harbor improvements, had peeked out his study window at blue skies and green trees and the stretch of the Great Lawn; he’d known when Jamie had arrived because he’d both felt and seen the presence of his husband stepping back into the world.

His husband; his magician; his other half: sometimes all those thoughts still made him shiver with delight. Six years into being married, and he still found it hard to believe. The last proper magician anywhere, a secret Jamie’d kept for years. A beautiful young newly appointed ambassador, arriving from Caledon. A young man who’d looked at Brendan’s exhausted discomfort with the endless evening of royal reception protocol, and who’d smiled and cured Bren’s headache with a touch, never mind that it’d potentially expose his power.

Jamie had fallen in love with him. Jamie wanted him: the anxious skinny unremarkable king of a small mostly unremarkable kingdom, a king who’d inherited too young and consequently got nervous about storms at sea and the ache of that years-ago loss and consequent too-soon weight of the crown, a king who really genuinely did enjoy balancing numbers on a spreadsheet and panicked when asked to make small talk at a banquet. Jamie had married him. How?

He knew it was more complicated than that. He let his pen slow, and come to rest, over a line about the docks.

He watched Jamie laugh and get pulled into a game of football with University students, sunshine in auburn hair, tumbling over shortness and gesturing hands. Bren wasn’t sure whether to worry or smile. His people loved his husband—but were Jamie’s shoulders too slumped? Movements less energetic than they should be?

He knew traveling to Faerie came at a cost. He knew Jamie came back tired, quieter, pensive, even if brighter and more knowledgeable, a paradox.

He knew it’d been the only way Jamie could’ve ever found a proper teacher, a world of real magic, not the stray bits that slipped into the human realm. He knew Jamie and the Faerie King were—

They were something. Bren tried not to think about that. He’d made himself mostly accept it: his husband loved him, and he loved Jamie, and he was consequently in some sort of strange three-way relationship with a King in another realm, because Jamie had once been kidnapped as a Faerie Consort and _that’d_ gotten terribly complicated, and Bren wasn’t sure it was love but he also wasn’t sure it wasn’t. Jamie and Oberon understood each other in a way that he, being thoroughly human, never would; Jamie tried not to hold grudges because when magicians did it could be dangerous, and Brendan was allowed to be annoyed about the kidnapping on his behalf.

He’d met Oberon twice. They’d regarded each other with prickly wariness, both rulers, both understanding that the entire power of Faerie could do terrible things to Bren’s tiny kingdom, and also equally understanding that they both cared for the short sturdy blue-eyed magician who’d folded both arms and leaned a hip against Bren’s desk and said, “How nice, we’re all getting along, shall we talk about establishing cross-realm communications properly, then?”

He watched Jamie run around the Great Lawn and pause, briefly, to breathe, bending over. Bren’s heart did a little jump; but Jamie straightened up and ran over to help his team score. Bren might’ve cheered, alone in his study. He wouldn’t’ve cared if anyone’d walked in, anyway.

He did sometimes wonder whether—

No, he told himself. No. You’re not thinking that. You’re enough, you’re more than enough, he’s said he loves you and you believe him. He doesn’t care you’re not as young as he is or as fun or the sort of person who’d spontaneously join a game of football or gifted with impossible wild magic. He _doesn’t_.

Bren went to move his pen, discovered an inkblot, sighed. Poked at numbers. They behaved themselves, adding up, clear and soothing.

Giddy shouting indicated that someone’d won. Drawn by the sound, Brendan drifted back to the window, watched students and his husband run around, watched them being happy.

He watched Jamie say goodbye to a few more players and then sit down abruptly, right there on the grass of the Great Lawn—and then lie down, leaning back, apparently too tired to stay upright—

Bren dropped the pen.

One of the students—he couldn’t tell who—had come over. Bringing water. Sitting with Jamie. Who took the water but didn’t get up.

Jamie had been traveling—had been crossing between realms—and wearing himself thin even before that, trying to figure out the mysterious crop failures and unseasonal weather shifts—and now he’d come back and decided to _play football with students_ , of all the ridiculous—

And he was probably fine, almost certainly fine; Jamie knew his own limits—but if something were really seriously wrong, the students wouldn’t know how to help, what to do—

Bren ran for the door. The castle stairs.

When he tumbled out onto the Great Lawn, the sun was lowering itself beyond the trees; flashes of light dazzled him momentarily. Breathless and clumsy, he skidded to a halt and dropped to his knees at Jamie’s side. His husband’s eyes were closed, though he was awake; the young man sitting beside him was talking about some sort of epic poetry, very animatedly, while Jamie made interested noises of encouragement.

“Hello, love,” Jamie said without looking, which might be either a magician’s or a husband’s senses; Bren wasn’t sure. Might’ve been both. “Have you met Neved? He’s our University football captain for the Blues, and he’s been lecturing me on Ekkarian warrior culture and epic poetry. Very eloquently, I might add. And also I’m fine.”

“You are _not_ ,” said both Brendan and Neved simultaneously; they glanced at each other and away, embarrassed for more or less the same reason. Jamie opened both eyes and pushed himself up on both elbows, and laughed. “Your faces, both of you…”

“No one believes you,” Neved said, “and next time you let me know if you’re tired, all right? I mean. Ah. Sorry, your majesty.”

Bren winced a little—he knew most of his people theoretically liked him, and he also knew he wasn’t as approachable as Jamie, despite being the one of them born and raised in Erinne—but tried, “No apologies? Um. That is. It’s just Brendan. Really. Um. If you’re friends with Jamie.”

Neved’s expression said very clearly that he wasn’t sure he could in fact call his king by a first name, but he nodded, at least.

Bren took his husband’s closest hand. “Jamie—”

“I’m just enjoying the lawn. Nice friendly grass. Don’t worry about me. How’re your harbor cost estimates?”

“Fascinating. Lots of numbers to balance. I’ll tell you later. What do you need? Sugar? Chocolate biscuits? The last oranges?” Jamie’s hand was warm, but was his grip not as firm as usual? Bren’s heart shredded tiny pieces of itself in distress.

“Sugar helps?” Neved said, with the expression of someone taking mental notes about the Royal Consort’s well-being, and also very aware that the Royal Consort’s husband was present, hovering, and technically his absolute monarch. “My gran makes these fantastic spiced honey cakes. I could run home and bring some up to the castle, later.”

“Bren,” Jamie said, “our current ambassador to Ekkar, the one stationed in the capital, that’s Lord Summerton, right? I mean the older one, not the younger one who eloped with his mother’s lady’s maid last month and caused all the scandal. He must be nearly seventy by now—the older one, not the one with the lady’s maid—and do you think he could use a sort of junior ambassador? Someone who knows the culture and the customs? We don’t have enough people who do, and did you know Summerton didn’t even speak the language when he was appointed? I know he was friendly with your father, but honestly that seems a bit unfortunate. And Nev would be brilliant. Caring about people, and about history, and all.”

“Oh Tree and Leaf,” Neved said, now sounding faintly shocked.

“He’s always like this,” Bren explained, “you get used to it. Jamie—”

“Of course you should finish University first,” Jamie said to him, “and speak to your family. And then come talk to us. I honestly am fine, love, I’m just being lazy now.”

“You’re not,” Bren said again, and sighed. “But I’m not arguing. I’m taking you home and feeding you. Royal, um, edict. Or something. I can do that, you know.”

“Love you.” Jamie sat up easily, more so than Bren had expected; a good sign, then. “And I’m listening. Especially if you’re promising chocolate biscuits. And you can tell me all about your numbers and the budget for improvements while I eat them.”


	3. manhandled (role-playing) (jason/colby)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colby likes Jason's muscles. And role-play scenarios in which Jason uses those muscles to claim a captive stowaway on a pirate ship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This and the next chapters are all bonus scenes for [my Character Bleed series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1424728)! (Which is out now in properly published form from JMS Books, though I won't link because of AO3 and nonprofit status and all that! But it's easy to find on Amazon etc!)

“So, boy.” Jason folded arms. Mock-glared at Colby, half in character, half himself: the self who adored Colby Kent and ridiculous fun in bed and every scenario that came out of Colby’s imagination and Jason’s own tabletop roleplaying Game Master experience. “You know who we are. What ship you’re on. You know what we do to stowaways.”

Colby, eyes sparkling, hands very loosely tied in front of himself with a scarf that was valiantly pretending to be piratical rope, retorted, “Of course I know who you are, Captain; do you think I’d chosen just any ship at random? I know you’re not likely to return to England for months, I know exactly how much illegal rum you’re smuggling, and I know you have a certain reputation—”

“Do you?” He stepped closer. Put a hand in Colby’s hair. Coiled fingers around strands, not gently. Colby gasped, but his little lip-lick indicated pleasure, so Jason went on, low and dangerous, “What reputation would that be, my little viscount?”

“Ah, so you know who I am.”

“Missing, they said. The day before we sailed.” He tugged at strands of dark silk, making Colby’s head tip back a fraction. “I’m not stupid and you’re not a fool. You were trying to get away.”

“I was.”

“From what?”

“Does it matter?”

“It might. Will someone come looking for you?”

“No. Well, possibly.” Colby swallowed, an elegant motion of his graceful throat; Jason, both as an annoyed pirate captain and an adoring husband, got fleetingly distracted by the beauty of him. Bedroom light, liquid and curious as fictional cabin lamp-gleam, traced Colby’s eyebrow, cheekbone, jawline, and the exposed freckle on his collarbone. His shirt was white, and had a loose open neck. His skin was smooth and luscious and tempting.

Colby added, because Jason hadn’t contributed yet, “My uncle’s been trying to kill me for two years now, you see. He very nearly succeeded. He won’t care that I’m lost at sea or ravished by pirates, but he might send someone looking just to make sure it happens, you see.”

“And your birthday’s tomorrow,” Jason said. “Coming of age.”

“Yes.”

“And you decided you’d rather be ravished by pirates.”

“If it’s that or be poisoned at breakfast or crushed to death in a carriage accident or shot during a supposed hunting accident, yes.”

“I could throw you off my ship right here. Miles from any shore you could swim to. If you can swim.”

“I can. You could.”

“You’re not scared.”

“Oh, I am. Petrified.”

“Are you?”

“I said—”

“You’re not scared enough.” Jason set his hand on Colby’s throat this time. Leaned in and loomed: muscles and strength and menacing bulk, versus Colby’s more slender frame and big eyes and deliberately tousled hair. He also murmured, low, “Still good?”

“Fine,” Colby whispered back. “I trust you. I’ll talk to you about cherries if I need you to stop, I remember.”

“Okay. Ah…you’re not scared enough, I said.” He tightened his grip. Just enough: Colby clearly felt the pressure, eyes going wide, next breath possible but more difficult. Colby’s dick, Jason noticed, was absolutely up and hard and into this. Good to know, he thought, for later.

Right now he eased up a fraction, not trying to push too much. Colby enjoyed being conquered, dominated, all that; but needed the conquering to progress with some care for healing scars. “You stowed away on a pirate ship, little viscount. You thought you’d work for your passage? You thought you’d join my crew and prove your worth?”

“I thought I could show you—I know some things about navigation, I’m willing to work, and—”

“Oh, you’ll work.” Jason took the hand from his throat, but only to wrap it around Colby’s bound wrists and jerk Colby closer. “On your back. On your knees. Using that pretty mouth, that sweet ass of yours. Keeping me happy. Understand?”

Colby shivered a little, lips parting; Jason paused again. Colby nodded slightly, so that was fine, that’d been a good reaction; Jason relaxed again, and let his grip on Colby’s wrists get harder, more cruel. “Such a sweet boy. You’ve never had a pirate’s cock up your arse, have you, sweet boy?”

“No,” Colby whispered. “Please…”

“Please what? Don’t? It’s too late for that. And you promised you’d earn your keep.” He lifted his other hand, let Colby see and accept the motion before moving it: landing hard over Colby’s hip, biting down. Colby liked being handled and claimed; Colby’s memories did not like _unexpected_ roughness. Expected was fine, though. Even fantastic. “Or was that what you were thinking? What you wanted, choosing this ship, choosing me? Thinking about getting yourself fucked by a pirate, sweet boy?”

“I don’t know,” Colby answered this time. “I’ve never…I want…”

“You want to be a good little pirate’s whore,” Jason said, “maybe? Maybe that’s what you needed all along?” He pushed Colby two steps toward the bed, using height and breadth. Colby wasn’t _that_ much shorter, and at this point had a decent amount of martial arts training courtesy of their friend Evan, but went along willingly. His eyes were very blue, and very happy.

Jason put a hand on Colby’s shirt. Paused to check: “Still good with me ripping this?”

Colby almost laughed but smothered the sound in a grin. “Yes, go on, it’s got that ink stain on that sleeve anyway…”

Jason grabbed creamy fabric. It tore and gave way under his hands.

Colby made a tiny sound. His eyes were huge, not at all afraid; in fact, he looked exactly like someone incredibly turned on by Jason’s biceps and the ability to strip clothing right off his body.

Jason couldn’t not feel smug about that. “You like that, don’t you? You want me to strip you naked right here in my cabin—or in front of my crew? Not to share you, no—you’re all mine, sweet boy—but to let them see. To let them all know how much of a whore you are, getting off on a pirate’s cock, begging for more when I fuck you.”

“Oh god,” Colby said, more a shocked inadvertent gasp than anything else. “Jason…”

“Still good?”

“Ah…yes. You wouldn’t—not even in this scenario, you wouldn’t share me, please…but the idea of it, what you said, being watched while you take me, everyone knowing I’m yours…”

“You are. I could just bend you over anywhere, couldn’t I, anywhere I wanted, and fuck you on the spot. And you’d love it.”

Colby outright whimpered. His hands, bound, moved: rubbing against the rigid line of his cock.

“ _No_ ,” Jason said, with force. “ _Mine_ —” And he opened Colby’s pants, roughly, yanking them down and off, leaving Colby stripped bare and naked; he shoved Colby back to the bed, lifting him, manhandling him, tossing him into the center on his back amid deep crimson sheets.

Colby moaned, trembling, squirming: in character and also himself, beautiful and erotic and knowing what he’d given himself over to and also knowing how helpless he was, hands bound, at the mercy of Jason’s strength and authority. His hair spilled out dark and wild against richly colored satin, and the gold thread in the scarf at his wrists shimmered. He was luscious, an artwork, exquisitely vulnerable and open for plundering.

Jason stripped away his own clothing, with haste. Came to the bed: kneeling atop Colby’s quivering body, straddling his hips. Colby’s cock, wet-tipped, twitched. Jason’s own dick, hot and surging and eager, stood up; when he looked down he saw himself, his arousal, Colby beneath him.

He leaned down. Caught Colby’s wrists. Dragged them up to rest above that tumble of soft hair, and kept them pinned. “You want me to fuck you, like this?” He was asking honestly, as well as saying a line. The friendly amber curl of familiar bedroom light ran along his arm, where he was holding slender wrists in place.

“Yes,” Colby breathed. “Touch me, take me, do what you want with me—however you want—handle me, use me, fuck me—show me how a pirate would fuck me, please…”

“Happy to oblige,” Jason informed him, and bent to kiss him, less than half in character now, but that was all right because Colby was kissing him back, kissing him and laughing, wrapping a long leg around his waist, curling fingers down to touch Jason’s hand.

Jason whispered, nuzzling the words into Colby’s ear under silky hair, “You seriously do have a thing for my muscles and putting you where I want you,” and Colby whispered back, “You know I do, now tell me more about how you’d just push me down onto the deck or over a cannon and hold me there and have your way with me, please,” and this time Jason ended up laughing, kissing the corner of Colby’s mouth, rocking their hips together, about to fuck Colby with wholehearted ravenous lust and equally wholehearted complete adoration, utterly gloriously in love.


	4. support, carrying, wound reveal (jason/colby, as john/cam)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Kill and his newest spy team member might have a problem or two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imagine Jason and Colby in character as John and Cam, for this _John Kill_ movie scene.

They’re on the run in Venice, on the run with each other, global supervillain organization hot on their trail, separated from the rest of the team but planning a rendezvous; John turns from a window, paces, restless. He’s never liked waiting. An itch builds under his skin.

“Sharpen a knife or something,” Cam says without looking up. His head’s bent over his laptop; his hair’s standing up in ridiculous dark waves, drying from the safehouse’s tiny shower. It makes him look younger, softer, more innocent. John’s seen him take out six henchmen with elegant grace, and coax an enemy vault to self-destruct with a single line of code, and crack supposedly unbeatable security in under a minute. All within the last two days, in fact.

Cam adds, “You’re making me nervous,” and pokes something on the laptop. He’s trying to find chatter about the missing superweapon. Sales. An auction. A gathering of certain important names.

“You’re not nervous.” John circles around to him. “Unless you are. Should I be worried?”

Cam looks up. Their eyes meet.

Everything they are and aren’t hangs on a knife’s point in the middle of a run-down once-lavish hotel. Salt and water scent the air. The edge of a bruise is visible on Cam’s arm, beneath a shoved-up shirtsleeve.

Cam’s saved him once and pretended to betray him once. That plan had worked.

Cam’s beautiful and brilliant and worth every drop of his reputation. That’s all true. His reputation had also mentioned that he was young and amoral and charming. He’d been friends, in the way of the underworld of spies and quasi-official secret agents and hacker networks, with Brent. And Brent had died saving them all, months ago—had left them a name, a contact, and had sworn they could trust him, this young man with a drop of water sliding down beside his left eyebrow and the fate of the world currently depending on his fingertips…

There’s also the fact that they’ve had sex. Twice now. Enthusiastically. Explosively, to borrow a description.

John shifts weight, not off balance because he isn’t but needing to move. The air crackles.

“That depends.” Cam’s fingers don’t move, calm over the keys. “How much do you trust me?”

“I trust Brent.”

The flicker in blue eyes says Cam’s heard the present tense. “That’s not an answer about me.”

“Isn’t it?”

“You trust me enough to bring me to Moscow and let me turn you in and then rescue you,” Cam says. “You trust me enough to fuck me. Twice. But not enough to tell me so.”

It’d been heart-pounding, pulse-thumping, wild and glorious. It’d been exhilarated and exhilarating, the first time: an escape from enemy organization clutches, a plan gone right, giddy laughter and triumph and adrenaline streaking through their veins like scotch and silver. They’d made it out and made it to safety and caught each other’s gazes, and John had pushed him up against a bunker door and kissed him, hard and fierce, hands going to Cam’s belt buckle, tugging it loose.

The second time had been here, this safehouse, this morning. They’d fallen asleep the night before, exhausted; they’d woken, and shifted to look at each other. John had touched the bruise on Cam’s arm, earned while getting him out; Cam had smiled and reached up and pulled him close.

They hadn’t talked much, either time.

“I don’t not trust you,” he says. “It’s just that trusting someone…you earn that.” Other specters rise and hover: old treachery, former lovers, dead and living, here and gone. He’d had a fiancée once. The rest of the team knows not to mention Victoria’s name.

“I know. And I know what you’ve heard about me. That I never used to care who I worked for. That I did…what I did, and who, in Paris.” Cam’s voice stays even, though his chin lifts slightly. “I know you know all that.”

“I’ve heard about it. I also know Brent told us to find you.” He says it again: “And I trust Brent. He thought you’d end up on the right side.”

“That sounds like him. Having faith in people.” Cam runs both hands through his hair, sending a few last water-drops flying. “Not like us. If—hang on.”

“What?”

“Stop leaning over me, your shoulder’s in my way. —Ah. Well. Not good.”

“What’s not good?”

“Someone knows about this place.” Cam’s eyes meet his, calm but aware of the situation. “Two minutes.”

“Then we’re moving.” Up, grabbing guns, grabbing their stash of money and passports. “We’ll go out the back—if we get split up, head for the third location on the list—”

“I’m not leaving you.” Stubborn, this time. “He told me you’d need help. You need me.”

“Cam—” What? I don’t need you, I do need you, you’ve saved us all half a dozen times already and I barely know you but I know the way you look when you come, as if all those edges end up surprised by pleasure? I want to know you? I want to trust you?

If Cam really did plan to betray him, those blue eyes would say the same thing, about not wanting to leave him. John knows that.

He says, “I’m not planning for us to get split up. Just in case. The third, got it?”

“Yes.” Cam gets up, yanks on his boots—he’d been barefoot, out of the shower, and something twists in John’s chest for a second—and dives for the laptop. “But—”

A crack splits the afternoon in two. A bullet. Gunfire.

They both drop behind the sofa. More bullets sear the air.

“ _Two_ minutes?”

“They’re faster than I thought! They must’ve had someone already here—”

“Never mind. I’ll cover you. Get to the door.”

“About that…might be a problem…”

John starts to demand why; the question dies on his lips. Cam moves a hand, shaky. Blood on his fingers. Across his stomach. Above a hip.

John Kill, veteran of a hundred impossible missions, doesn’t have an answer. Every one of his unspoken words screams in silence, in that second.

His hands, though, are practiced. They move. Pressure over the wound. Torn fabric. Cam’s face is pale, but he pants, “I’ll live. I think. If we get out of here and do something about it.”

He’s not wrong. It’s bad but not _immediately_ fatal. Not good, but the placement could’ve been worse.

“You’ll be fine. We’ll get you out of here, okay?”

Cam manages a grin. “Not without you, I said. You need me. Or at least my laptop.”

“Wouldn’t be nearly as much fun with your laptop and not you. Can you still aim?”

“Probably. From the angle and the speed…their shooter should be close enough. I can handle that.” Cam fishes out a throwing knife. “On three?”

“On three.” He slides an arm under Cam’s body, preparing. Cam’s not really heavy: nicely muscled, but slender. Easy enough to support. He hopes Cam can stand up.

Cam’s blood’s very red against the dark blue of his shirt. His hair’s still damp, an incongruous reminder of what they’d been doing to require a shower. He tips his head against John’s shoulder, breathing faster.

“Cam?”

“Here. Sorry. Kind of hurting a lot. Just got shot, you know.”

“Oh, did you…so you weren’t just trying to get me to carry you around…” Ready. Both of them. A count.

And motion: abrupt, whirling, himself scooping Cam off the floor—running for the door, knowing the gun will be firing—knowing the fire will indicate a position—

Cam’s hand moves. Silver snaps outward. It’s a small knife, made for this. And the shooter’s nearby. And Cam, as always, has exquisitely calculated aim.

Silence lands like a body going down, like bullets dropping. Cam’s quiet also, too quiet, hand falling. He’s falling too: sagging into John’s arms.

“ _Cam_ —”

“Still…here…ow, though…hey, that was…a fucking awesome throw…tell me you saw that.”

“Yeah, you’re saving our asses again. Come on, I’ve got you, you’re okay.” He’s carrying Cam now, cradled in both arms. Running.

“I’m fine…for a given value of fine…I want my knife back. I like that knife. Oh, ow, stairs.”

“I’ll get you a new set. Something shiny and expensive.”

“Oh, promises…best way to a man’s heart…” Cam’s actually pulling out a mobile phone, one of his many mysterious modified collection; he’s checking something, panting, coughing. He’s still got the laptop, because it’d been in his shoulder bag along with another knife or two. “Okay, good, that tracker’s still running…hey, do you know anything about someone named Celia Bloom, because that name keeps—”

“Her name’s Elizabeth, or it used to be, and she works for La Fantomina.” Eliza. Fuck. And Cam’s still trying to work, trying to protect the mission—bleeding and unable to stand and trying to help, because John doesn’t trust him and he needs to prove himself—

But. But John does need him, needs to trust him, needs to make sure he’s safe and alive and still here—

He keeps Cam cradled against his chest. More stairs. He’s in good shape. He can do this. He can get them out of this. He can get them to the next safehouse, and call in a favor, use any debt he’s owed, beg someone to come and look at Cam and make the bleeding stop.

He can’t lose Cam. He just—he _can’t_. Not another person, and not now, not Cam, not when they’re—if they’re—whatever they are, whatever they might be, dangerous and tantalizing as every possibility is. He can’t lose this. He won’t.

He feels each breath in his lungs, feels Cam’s weight in his arms, Cam’s head leaning more heavily on his shoulder. Three flights of stairs to go. He scrapes out, “Stay awake. Talk to me.”

It’s not about the mission, or Eliza, or any of that. That’s a problem for the future. He’s saving Cam right now.

“I’m awake.” Clearly true, but Cam’s voice sounds weaker. “Looks like Celia…Elizabeth…doesn’t like you. I mean…like…personally.”

“Not a surprise.”

“You want to…tell me that story…sometime?”

“Maybe later. It’s not pretty.”

“I don’t mind…not pretty…and, hey… _I_ like you.”

“Delirious. Blood loss. We’re almost there. Private dock right out this door. How do you feel about stealing a boat?”

“It’s not my first choice of…getaway vehicle…but we’re in Venice, so…it’ll do. Nice and romantic.”

“Now you’re just saying words.” Down the stairs, getting breath back. Cam’s blood’s soaked across them both. John’s own shirt’s sticky with it.

Somewhere close, he thinks. A friend. Henry, maybe, who’s retired and will complain but will help—that should be reachable, once they get out of here—close enough—

He says, “I’ve got you, you just hang on, okay?” and kicks the door open, Cam in his arms.


	5. mourning loved one/reluctant bed rest (jason/colby)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Resting,” Jason said, meaningfully. “You. Bed.” He had a hand on Colby’s shoulder, a reminder.

“Resting,” Jason said, meaningfully. “You. Bed.” He had a hand on Colby’s shoulder, a reminder. The bed perked up under Colby: doing its job.

Colby sighed. “I’m really doing all right.”

“You are, but you’re also recovering.”

“It’s not as if it’s even terribly—”

“You were,” Jason said, as calmly as he could under the circumstances, “in a fucking explosion. And got knocked out.” The stunt had gone wrong. Explosives too early and too strong. Something not measured right on the part of the demolitions crew. Colby hadn’t been far enough away. He’d hit unforgiving ground hard.

Jason, not in that scene, had been watching from behind monitors. Had run, heart in his throat. Colby had been waking up already, but slowly, dazed and bewildered about how he’d landed on the ground, when Jason’d flung himself down beside blue eyes.

Concussion, the doctors’d said. Not too bad, but needing rest and care. No strenuous activity for at least a couple of days, assuming nothing got worse. Nothing seemed to be, though Jason’s heart wasn’t convinced of that.

“They didn’t say no working on the novel, specifically…” Colby tried, plaintive.

“No exerting yourself physically _or_ mentally, and you know it.” He touched Colby’s temple. The lights were low; they’d been too bright, earlier. “No screens. So no laptop. Your next genius collaboration with George can wait. How’re you doing?”

“Tired. Bored. I can’t even look up banana bread recipes?”

“Not yet.” He ran his hand over Colby’s head, gentle. “I can do some baking. If you want bread.”

“Maybe later.” Colby shut both eyes, leaning back into pillows and Jason’s touch. “I’m not very hungry, at the moment.”

Jason’s chest tightened. “Something not feeling right? Nausea, headaches, like that?”

“Just a bit…”

“Want me to call someone?”

“They said it was normal, and it should go away on its own, and—”

“And if it doesn’t,” Jason said levelly, “then I will. Okay?”

“If it gets worse, you can.” Colby opened his eyes again. “I wish I could remember more. It’s disconcerting. One minute I’m being Cam, running out of the warehouse, perfectly in character…and then I woke up lying on the ground with far too many faces hovering around me. I don’t even recall that very clearly; I know you were there, and Evan, but it’s all sort of foggy from there to a hospital room. It’s such an odd feeling, knowing there’s something missing.”

“That’s normal too,” Jason said, reminding them both, and reached over to get the cup of water. “Here. Stay hydrated, at least.” He hated the small quiver in Colby’s voice. He hated that Colby’d had to be hurt again, to face tests and strange-if-professional hands on him again, to have a gap in memory.

And today, today, of all days…

He couldn’t think of that. He’d been trying not to think of that for a while now. He’d known what anniversary it was. Evan did too, and they’d looked at each other that morning, running through stunt choreography one more time; Jason had guessed they’d probably want to talk, or drink, later. He hadn’t mentioned it to Colby then. He’d planned to.

And then the world had imploded, and now they were here. In a luxurious hotel suite in Vancouver, not in a hospital, but with Colby very much injured. Jason’s lungs didn’t feel like they’d taken a full breath ever since the explosion. Or earlier. This day, and now this…Colby, and—

An older body hovered, when he rubbed his spare hand over his face. A friend. A good friend, the best, really, because Charlie had been the sort of person who’d happily teach a younger colleague how to do a kick or a fall or a vault across rooftops, sharing knowledge without jealousy; Charlie had been the sort of person who’d come over, bringing food and cheerful competent company, when Jason’s father’d been so badly injured decades ago; and Charlie had been kind to both his own younger brother and to Jason and to everyone, and then—

He tried to breathe some more, through the hurt. Through the anniversary. He knew Evan was hurting too.

It’d been most of the day, now. Late afternoon. He wished he could do more about the edges of sun slanting in around curtains. Colby needed dimness. Quiet. Soothing.

They’d been filming at dawn, first light; he’d been able to bring Colby home after a few hours. Colby had slept, on and off; sleep was good for healing, though Jason’d been told to wake him every two hours to check on his awareness. Colby seemed fine so far, if mildly distressed by the amnesia surrounding the impact.

Colby shifted a fraction; Jason realized he’d been holding the water and its straw in place way too long, and hastily set it down. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Are you at least allowed to read to me?”

“Probably? Nothing that’s work, though.” He picked up Colby’s hand, played with slim calligrapher’s fingers, surreptitiously tested Colby’s pulse. Seemed fine. “New Alex Castle novel? Rival steampunk magicians falling in love?”

“Yes, if you wouldn’t mind. It’s in my bag, from yesterday—”

“I’ll get it. Don’t move.”

When he came back Colby was setting down a phone, looking suddenly guilty. Jason said, “Don’t tell me you were doing work,” but kept his tone very light: Colby still, even these days, instinctively flinched from disapproval, a legacy of older emotional wounds. “I love you, babe, but no, okay?”

“I, ah. I wasn’t attempting to work. I promise.” Colby sounded nervous but not afraid; he met Jason’s eyes. “Just checking something. Entirely quick. Finished, I swear.”

“I already texted Jill and Andy, but if you want—”

“No, it’s fine, they know I’m fine.” That was an exaggeration. Colby’s two best friends had heard about the accident via industry connections and Andy’s husband’s fingers on the pulse of the internet. They’d been worried; they still were.

Colby added, “Very well, not _entirely_ fine as such, you don’t have to say it. Come sit with me?”

“Of course.” He settled down next to his heart, in bed; the padded headboard took some weight and offered some reassurance. He waved the paperback, with its swirling blue magical cover. “Tell me where to start.”

“Oh, we can start from the beginning, I was only a chapter or so in. But, before that…” Colby bit a lip, watched Jason’s face. “Er…may I ask you about something?”

“You don’t need to ask me whether you can ask—” He took a breath, let it go. He knew about the reasons Colby would. “Please. Please ask. Anything you want, cream puff.”

The occasional nickname made Colby giggle, though his eyes remained anxious. “I only wanted to…if I can, ah…you see, I do know what day it is, what anniversary, and…and I know this likely isn’t how you wanted to spend it…”

Jason had opened his mouth. No words emerged. He set the book down without thinking. It landed safely next to Colby’s leg.

That anniversary. Today. Charlie’s body, sprawled at the side of a diving tank, lifeless and limp, because a stunt had gone wrong then too—because it’d gone wrong right before Jason’d arrived, coming to meet him and grab lunch and talk about respective movies—because Jason hadn’t been two minutes earlier, hadn’t known, maybe couldn’t’ve done anything that everyone else hadn’t done, but he’d never know, he couldn’t go back and make himself drive faster or walk faster or—

Because he’d been there, he’d known before Evan had. Before any of Charlie’s family had. He hadn’t been the one to call them—too blinded by shock—but he’d always thought he should have. As a friend.

Years ago—decades ago, really, now. Still vicious, that memory. Under the surface most of the time, a part of him, familiar and well-worn; but every once in a while it bit hard. On a certain day.

He knew Evan didn’t blame him. Evan never had. And they’d become closer friends, slowly, through the aftermath: stumbling among emotions, catching each other.

And Evan, who was working as the choreographer for _this_ film’s fight scenes, had been at Jason’s side today, waiting for Colby in the hospital. Right there to lean on. Holding his hand.

Colby did know the story, of course—had known that story for a long time, almost since the beginning. But Jason hadn’t remembered the exact date ever coming up. He was pretty sure he hadn’t said, back when they’d talked about it, though he really _had_ meant to say something to Colby that afternoon.

He looked at Colby. Colby, injured and tired but hopeful, looked back, eyes all big and sweet.

Jason swallowed. Found words, scraping them together out of love. “I don’t want to be anywhere else. Not right now.”

“I do know you wouldn’t leave me alone. Not even temporarily.” Colby reached over. Collected Jason’s limp hand. Jason’s hand was larger overall, though Colby’s grip was surprisingly strong. Protective. “I thought perhaps…you might want to talk. And I’m here, of course. I’m always here if you want me. But if—”

“I said I’m not going anywhere.”

“No. But—”

This time a text interrupted. Jason’s phone. He eyeballed it, annoyed. Colby said, “It’s Evan. He’s outside, and I’m guessing he didn’t want to knock? Making noise?”

Jason paused. Took this in.

“I thought, you see, if I’d never convince you to go anywhere…and if you wouldn’t mind me being here…if I asked him to come by…and he said yes, of course…” Colby nibbled his lip again. That spot was turning pink. “Er…was that all right?”

Jason reached over. Set a finger on Colby’s mouth. “That’s not exactly no stress.” His voice came out very soft, mostly from amazement. Colby, in pain and dizzy and unhappy about gaps in memory, was still trying to take care of him.

“I want you to be all right as well,” Colby said, when Jason lifted the finger. “ _I_ need that. Please let me be here. For both of you, really; Evan’s my friend too, now, I think? Not the way he’s been yours, but at least a bit?”

“He is. And you’re—Colby, you…” He gave up. Shook his head. Leaned in for a kiss: tender, cautious, shaky with love and aching emotions, stretched and knotted up and given a beating today. Colby kissed him back, not tentative at all; Jason murmured his name again, and couldn’t resist just a little more tasting of him, a swipe of tongue, a nuzzle after.

He said, “I love you so damn much. You know that, right? I just—I love you.”

“I know. And I love you just as much.” Colby waved a hand, adorably and grandly imperious but not seriously so. “You may want to go and let him in.”

“ _You_ don’t move,” Jason said, and got up, rediscovering some equilibrium in the process.

Evan was leaning against the wall, texting, when Jason opened the door. He looked up, all fluid Krav Maga instructor’s grace and the same brown eyes and straight nose he and Charlie had shared; they’d always looked alike, even moved alike, though Evan had always been younger and just shorter enough for jokes about it. He said, “Hey,” and lowered the phone.

“Hey,” Jason said. “So…you and Colby were planning things, huh? Also, say hi to James for me.”

“I will. He’ll call me later.” Evan’s boyfriend was busy filming an old-fashioned detective thriller in Norway, though they talked constantly and sent each other pictures of ice cream shops and historical monuments. Jason cautiously approved of James, who seemed to’ve handled the whole revelation of Evan’s asexuality with pure and reaffirmed adoration, and who also looked at Colby Kent with the awe of someone in the presence of an acting genius.

“He worries, too,” Evan said, “he knows what today is,” and Jason nodded, because that meant Evan had told James, which meant Evan trusted James that much, which was another point in favor. Evan also held up a bottle. “Sparkling water? Elderflower-blueberry flavored? I thought about actual alcohol, but it’s not like I drink much, and Colby can’t, right now, anyway. How’s he doing? He said he was fine when he texted, but, y’know.”

“Perfect.” It was. Jason held the door for him. “Colby’s…okay. We’re keeping an eye on him. But he’s recovering. Like they said.”

He heard the words as they hit the afternoon, in his own voice. They were, he realized with surprise, true.

Colby was hurt, but was recovering. Getting better. And that was okay.

They’d all be okay, he thought. Together.

Evan peeked into the bedroom. Waved at Colby. “So you found a way to get out of your next training session with me, then.”

Colby laughed. “As if I’d want to. Come in, please. Jason offered to bake us banana bread later.”

“Did I?” Jason said. “Fine, I did.” Their suite had a kitchen. They’d done some shopping. He was pretty sure they had all those ingredients. “Here, I’ll pour that.”

“Oh, that sounds delicious, thank you—”

“I know you like interesting flavors,” Evan said, grinning; and took the other chair. “Jason, my parents say thanks for the donation to that charity, by the way, and also they’d love to say hi to you sometime. Kittens, this year?”

“Good,” Jason said, “it got there, then.” He did try to, every year. In Charlie’s name. Different charities, but all things he’d liked. Kittens had been one of them; Charlie and Evan’s family had always had cats. “I’ll give them a call. Or we can, maybe.” He glanced at Colby. “Everyone.”

“Maybe, yeah.” Evan accepted a glass when Jason handed it over. “So. To family, then?”

“Yeah.” Jason sat back down on the bed, arm around Colby, who leaned against him, bright-eyed and alive and real. “To family.” They clinked glasses; Jason kissed the side of Colby’s head, after. Colby’s blood relatives were uniformly dreadful; Colby was part of his family, now. The family they’d found and chosen and built, together.

“So,” Evan said, to Colby, “did Jason ever tell you the story about the time he and my brother snuck a classic Chevy off the set of an astronaut movie, picked me up, and took us all to the beach for the day? It was awesome until we were about to leave, and the car got a flat tire, and of course they were these fancy historical replica tires, so there’s us frantically calling everyone we knew to find a replacement, and _not_ calling anyone who knew Jason’s dad, so it was harder than you’d think, because Luca knows _everyone_ who knows anything about classic cars and the movie industry…”

“I remember Charlie saying he was going to pretend he didn’t know us,” Jason said. “He wouldn’t’ve, and we knew it, so it was a joke…”

Evan pointed at him, and quoted, with full dramatic effect, “ _Neither of you is my brother! I am an only child!”_

“Oh, no.” Colby was laughing. So was Jason, because it’d been spot on. “What’d you do?”

“Gave up and called Jason’s dad. Who’d known since the first phone call, because he’d been on a call with that garage owner at the exact same time.” Evan swung both shoeless feet up to rest on Colby’s bed. “It’s a good thing your dad’s very cool. I mean, he wasn’t thrilled, but he figured we’d suffered enough, with the panicking and all. He handled it.”

“For years,” Jason said, “for _years_ , after that, any time the three of us were together, and one of us did something embarrassing…”

Colby’s eyebrows went up, amused. “ ‘I am an only child’?”

“Exactly.” Evan nudged Colby’s foot with his. “Exactly that. Did Jason tell you the Pumpkin Cat story? I wasn’t there when they found her, just when Charlie brought her home, so Jason should start it.”

“Pumpkin Cat?” Colby inquired.

“Yeah. It’s a cute story.” Jason cuddled Colby a little more, liking the warmth, loving the shape of him, the presence. The lights were low and tranquil, and the bedroom tucked its walls around them, and Colby was slowly sipping sparkling water, awake and alert. They’d be back at work in a few days, and Colby would be all right; tension unwound, eased by berry-flavored water and words.

He _knew_ Colby’d be all right. They all would.

He said, “We were working on this terrible low-budget horror movie, about a haunted scarecrow with a pumpkin head that comes alive and murders people…”

“That sounds…improbable.”

“Don’t even ask about where the cursed cornstalk spear fits in. Anyway, we walk onto set one day, right past the prop head, this giant fake pumpkin, and the pumpkin squeaks at us in this tiny little kitten voice, and Charlie runs over to look, and there’s this tiny orange baby stuck in the light-up mechanism, and he just dives right in to get her out, right as the director walks in, so all the guy sees is Charlie halfway into a pumpkin head we’ve been told is a delicate piece of prop equipment, so he stops right there to yell at us…”

“At which point,” Evan said, “my brother, being my brother…”

“Jumped up, held out a kitten, and said, ‘look, I found your ghost!’” Jason finished. “And everyone cracked up, because nobody ever could stay mad at him.”

“And that’s how we got Pumpkin Cat,” Evan said. “Cat number three, when Charlie brought her home. Cat number four, by the way, was Jason’s fault.”

“He sounds so lovely,” Colby said. “Like someone I’d’ve liked to know.”

“He’d’ve liked you,” Jason said, and Evan said it too, at the same time; they glanced at each other, and at Colby, who got a little more shyly happy and offered, “It’s an honor? And how was your family’s fourth cat Jason’s fault?”

“So motorcycles are nice and warm in the winter,” Jason said, “and cats like to be warm, and my mom’s allergic, so _we_ couldn’t keep him…” and reached for more sparkling water for a refill for Colby’s glass.


	6. ignoring an injury (but only on camera) (sam/leo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam watches Leo film a scene of that science fiction television show...in which Leo's character is hurt, and conceals it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally forgot I'd already done this prompt, so...have an extra Whumptober fic! *laughs*
> 
> Also, as a few people've already guessed, Leo is absolutely playing The Master on _Doctor Who_. :D

Sam had seen a decent amount of television, and a decent amount of science fiction. He’d even seen a few episodes of this particular show, though not one in which Leo’s amoral space villain character popped up.

He waited very quietly where he’d been told to wait, out of the way behind cameras. He gazed at the movie set. They were filming in Iceland, in a wild jumble of dark rocks and crashing waves that’d stand in for an alien planet. Sam had never been to Iceland, or on a movie set, before.

Before Leo Whyte. Before kisses like rainbows, and brightly-colored teacups appearing in the morning, and the way Leo’s eyes warmed, green and brown shifting like shyly happy sand, every time Sam took his hand.

Dating an actor wasn’t without complications. Leo spent more money on new couch pillows than Sam had spent on an entire couch, and generously offered to pay for Sam’s whole family to visit London, and genuinely had no idea how to navigate a supermarket. Leo wasn’t Colby Kent levels of famous, but was recognizable enough that cameras popped up at airports and restaurants, and only the day before Sam had stepped to the side while Leo smiled and took pictures, as requested, with a group of fans who’d spotted them in a Reykjavik bookshop. That’d taken at least twenty minutes.

He watched Leo and the other actors get into position, crashed spaceship behind them. The male lead, the counterpart to Leo’s delightfully over-the-top petulant wickedness, said something that made Leo laugh, a joke or a comment. They were all dressed in tattered post-crash versions of science fiction extravagance, colorful and quirky. Leo’s long coat billowed in Icelandic wind; he glanced across rocks and cameras toward Sam, and waved enthusiastically before flopping down into rubble.

Dating an actor might be complicated. But dating Leo Whyte made Sam’s whole world more wonderful. Bigger. Way more full of rainbows. He wouldn’t be anywhere else.

He stayed out of the way. No one minded him being on the set—in fact, the director had been enthused about Leo’s photographer boyfriend dropping by, especially after Sam’s portraits of Colby Kent and Jason Mirelli’d had such an impact, and had said it’d be an honor if Sam wanted to document some of the filming process—but Sam was also very aware that he knew next to nothing about the intricacies of television production.

He had been capturing moments all week, and he’d happily contribute to a behind-the-scenes book. He was honestly amazed to have been asked, and asked in that tone of voice. He was still getting used to people knowing his name.

They began rolling. Leo’s character woke up first, struggling upright. He’d been responsible for sabotaging the ship, of course; but he had not planned for an outright crash.

He gazed around: at broken rocks, at a split-open ship hull, at flung bodies of companions. His expression changed; his whole posture changed. So many emotions ran through hazel eyes, lingered in the tip of his head, the set of his shoulders. He could escape. He could finish off his sworn enemy. He could try to contact his evil minions, back with the fleet.

Leo was so good at embodying a character, Sam thought. So brilliant. So talented. So much nuance. So amazing.

And his chest and body and even fingertips glowed, despite chilly wind: that was _his_ boyfriend, being a genius.

Leo—clearly still shaken from the crash—staggered to the body of that adversary, that equal. The hero. Injured—badly so, a skewer of metal through his stomach—and bleeding, unconscious. At his mercy.

Leo, in character, dropped to both knees. Looked at the hero; looked at the blood; looked at the rocks, his own hands, the pouch at his belt that held poisons, communications arrays, sonic weapons. They’d fought each other and challenged each other and taunted each other for years, in the course of the show, on and off: a relationship fraught and crackling with intensity.

Leo’s character had studied energy transference, vital forces, psychic powers. He put out a hand. Rested it on the dying hero’s chest. No other characters, no companions, had stirred yet, though they would momentarily, on cue.

Special effects wizardry would transform the moment, Sam knew. But he looked at Leo’s face: calm, making a choice, no hesitation.

The wounds should fade. Vanishing. Healing.

Transferred.

They did not cut—the visual effects would handle the vanishing—but let the scene play out. The hero gasped in a breath, woke, sat up easily. Took in the situation with rapid-fire intellect. Spun to glare at Leo’s villain, who was now leaning back insouciantly against a broken piece of spaceship, arms crossed.

Leo just smiled. The hero demanded, “Don’t just stand there, be useful!” and pushed himself to his feet. “Shouldn’t expect anything else, should I…”

“No.” Leo didn’t move. “Why, in the name of any star system, whichever you'd like, would I help you?”

“You’re still here. Why didn’t you run?”

“Perhaps my plan requires my presence. Shouldn’t you assist your minions?”

“They’re companions!” But he was, even as he scowled at Leo some more. “Just stay out of the way.”

Leo gave an ironic small salute. The main cast pretended to come to, waking up, groaning, checking on each other. Discussions began happening: where they’d landed, repairs, what to do next.

Leo, with no one paying him any mind, slid a hand inside his shirt, between fasteners. His fingers came away red; he looked at them for a moment, then buttoned his coat, dark and tight, over the shirt. Hiding the wound. Concealing the layers of emotion.

Sam, watching, felt his heart speed up. Of course it was the character, of course he felt for the character—but it was Leo too, his Leo, beautiful and wounded and exhausted, and nobody’d ever know how much he’d just done, the pain he’d taken, for a man who’d sworn to fight him…

Leo’s face was aware of all of that, in that second. And Sam, despite knowing it was fictional, ached for him. Hated everyone who’d ever made him lonely. Loathed the blood on Leo’s hand, under the shirt.

Leo looked up as the good characters all turned his way, and said brightly, “Come to a glorious optimistic decision, have we?”

“Be quiet for once,” grumbled the angriest of the companions, “prisoners don’t get to talk. We’re taking you to the Time Authority.”

“Ah, a plan. I shall look forward to seeing how you’ll manage it, with no working transport or communications.” Leo held out both wrists for binders, ironic. “Lead on.”

They began to walk, just enough for the shot; Leo stumbled. Caught himself, bound hands lingering against a chunk of ship for support, for an instant. “Sorry, just a rock, terribly treacherous, aren’t they?”

“You’d know about treacherous,” snapped the hero, low and frustrated and not knowing anything of what had happened moments ago; and he caught Leo’s shoulder. “Come on.”

They took a few more steps. And cut there.

Sam sagged into his chair, worn out by emotion. And he was only watching. Christ.

They did it all again, and again. Four times. Five. Leo was brilliant every time: dry and clever with dialogue, and silently profoundly compassionate, in a complicated and selfish way, when kneeling beside his adversary. Transferring the injury, letting himself bleed for the man he loved and battled and hated and was drawn to; and saying nothing about it, knowing they’d all believe he simply didn’t want to lift a finger.

Six times, and they were done; they’d have a bit of a break while moving to the next location, the corner of a fortress in black rock and whipping winds. Leo wriggled hands out of prop binders, waved at cast-mates, and ran over to Sam. “What’d you think?”

“I think you’re amazing.” He caught both of Leo’s hands, laughing; he leaned into the kiss. “So much emotion. Your expression—I mean, wow.”

Leo’s whole face brightened. He loved compliments, and rarely believed them, Sam knew: a hell of a lot of self-doubt hid under on-set pranks and kitten-adoption events. “It worked, then? I did think it went well, but then again I never feel like I know for sure. And it’s been some time since my last appearance. I was worried about getting back into the rhythm.”

“I felt it all. And I’m not even caught up with the show.” Sam glanced at Leo’s fingers, at a smudge of fake blood. Some of it had soaked through his shirt, and the coat. “It felt…real.”

And for a second, a split second, it _did_. He knew it wasn’t—he _knew_ —but he’d said it aloud, and he could see the red, and he’d just watched Leo stumble and trip and stagger with pain, and it’d looked so…

“Oh, Sam.” Leo’s hands tightened around his, grip made of fingerless gloves and affection. “Thank you for the lovely praise, and I shall try not to let it feed my ego? What does one feed an ego? Is it like an eagle? Sort of carnivorous, and rather dangerous? I expect it could be, if one pushes the metaphor. Would you like tea?”

Sam, who knew exactly how Leo’s brain worked by now—the steps might not be obvious but made perfect sense, from bashful deflection to silly word-association to surprisingly insightful philosophy to making sure other people were taken care of and well-fed, both in terms of comfort and tea—said, “I love you, you know.” He did.

“I love you, and I love it when you say nice things to me.” Leo batted eyes at him, long-lashed and weightless. That was a joke, one that covered up absolute sincerity. “I’m glad I managed to make it believable. I’m obviously not at all presently being skewered by a spaceship section, not even a magically transferred invisible one, so it’s a bit difficult to act, in that sense.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “I’m glad you’re not being skewered.” He held Leo’s hand; they wandered toward craft services and a tea break, over scattered rocks, through slicing wind. Sam’s own coat was cozy and thick; he nearly asked whether Leo wanted it. That outfit couldn’t be very warm.

A personal assistant ran up. Thrust a blanket, large and woolly, Leo’s way. Leo took it and managed to transform it into a swooping fashion statement, a bundle of plaid and protection, and thanked her as she bounced off to continue blanket-deliveries elsewhere. Sam relaxed a little more.

Leo said, watching his face, “They do keep us well taken care of, you know.”

“I know.”

“Are you having thoughts about ways we might warm up back at the hotel? Scented oils in a bathtub? A massage? Fabulous sex while I give you a massage in the bathtub with scented oils?”

A passing pair of extras, dressed for guard duty at the planetary fortress, froze mid-step and turned wide eyes Leo’s direction. Leo put up a hand and wiggled fingers, a wave. “I’ll see you in a few moments, and you can menace me with those laser spears! Looking forward to it!”

The taller extra opened his mouth, closed it, and managed, “Us too!” Leo beamed, blew them a kiss, and kept walking.

“You’re not actually going to die, though,” Sam said. Leo’s fingers were still too cold, in his. He despised the invention of fingerless gloves. “I mean, on the show. They love bringing you back. Though—are you allowed to tell me? Don’t, if you’ll get in trouble.”

“You and I are _such_ different people,” Leo said cheerfully, and stopped walking just to kiss him. “I love spoilers. I love knowing everything. Especially when no one else knows. But, sadly, it’s not a secret, at least not here on set. No, I’m decidedly not going to die. He’ll choose to let me go. So I can show up again later on. Everybody lives. It’s marvelous.”

“I like that,” Sam said. “Everybody lives. It’s a _good_ ending.”

“Even the villain of the story,” Leo said. “Yes.”

“You’re not the villain. Antagonist, yeah. Anti-hero. But not a villain.”

“Really?”

“You save people. Yeah, it’s what you want too, it’s because you need him alive, you’re obsessed, all that. But you still save him, and then you help him, because you know he won’t leave his crew behind, and you want him to be…not happy, exactly, but…out there. Free. For you to find again. So, yeah. Not a villain.”

“Yes,” Leo said, “yes. That’s what I—thank you. For that.” His eyes were green and brown and pleased as spring.

“I get to give _you_ a massage later,” Sam said. “And warm you up. You know. While you recover from magically transferred skewerings.” I love you, he meant. I want you warm and happy, underneath me, on top of me, whichever you want, as long as you’re here and laughing and probably making terrible jokes about the size of someone’s laser spear, in bed. I’ll make tea after, if you want. That blend that reminds you of home.

“All of that sounds splendid,” Leo agreed, clutching a fold of blanket as it started to slip, other hand still in Sam’s. The wind tugged at his hair, ruffling dramatically spiked blond strands. “You know how much I love your hands on me. All over. Every…inch of me.”

Sam had to grin. Leo Whyte, he thought again. His Leo. Finding a way for Sam to fuss over him, guessing Sam might need to affirm that every last bit of red was only fake, just in case, just to know; and then flipping it all into a sex joke. Ridiculous. Adorable. Perfect.

He said, “Sounds like a plan, then. I love _all_ your inches.”


End file.
